Chapter 3 - MEMORY LOSS
Detective Ortiz understood traps.
That was why I trusted her faster than I trusted most people.
When I told her to say I remembered nothing, she did not ask whether grief had made me irrational. She did not lecture me about procedure. She did not say revenge would not bring my mother back.
She looked at my father struggling in the hallway and said quietly, “You want him comfortable.”
“Yes.”
“You understand that if he believes you remember, he may attempt to influence or silence you.”
“I understand.”
“You’re injured.”
“I am not stupid.”
Her mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
Respect.
She straightened and turned toward the hallway.
“Mr. Mercer,” she called.
My father stopped shouting.
Ortiz stepped into the doorway, blocking his view of me just enough.
“Your daughter is severely traumatized. She is confused. She appears to have no clear memory of the fire.”
The relief on his face was immediate.
Too immediate.
Then he did what guilty men often do when they think danger has passed.
He overacted sorrow.
“Oh, Claire,” he said, voice breaking. “My poor girl.”
I stared at him from the bed and let my eyes go blank.
He stepped forward, but the officers kept him back.
Ortiz added, “She heard you say you tried to save them.”
My father swallowed.
Then nodded.
“Yes. Yes, I tried.”
“She appears to believe that.”
He closed his eyes as if in prayer.
I watched him carefully.
The corners of his mouth softened.
Not grief.
Victory.
That expression killed the last daughter in me who wanted this to be a misunderstanding.
A nurse entered to adjust my IV.
Ortiz returned to my bedside while my father was led to a family consultation room.
“We do this carefully,” she said. “No heroics.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at the photos on my blanket.
“I build financial cases for a living, Detective. I know how long truth takes when money is involved.”
“Good. Then you know emotional satisfaction can ruin evidence.”
I closed my eyes.
My ribs screamed.
My mother was dead.
My father was outside pretending to mourn her.
And I had to become patient.
That was the cruelest part.
A few hours later, doctors confirmed what my body already knew.
Smoke inhalation.
Second-degree burns across one shoulder and part of my side.
Cracked ribs.
Concussion.
Cuts from broken glass.
No immediate organ failure.
Lucky, one doctor said.
I did not feel lucky.
Luck would have been my mother beside me in the next bed.
Instead, my father visited after midnight with a bouquet of white lilies and a clean black suit.
White lilies.
Funeral flowers before the funeral.
A hospital security officer stood near the door. Detective Ortiz watched through the interior window. My father did not know I knew that.
He sat beside me.
“Claire.”
I let my eyes drift toward him slowly, as if drugged and fragile.
His face crumpled into the version of grief that worked on donors.
“I don’t know how to live without her.”
I said nothing.
He took my hand.
His thumb pressed near a burn dressing.
Not enough to injure.
Enough to remind.
“What do you remember?”
My heartbeat climbed.
I made my voice hoarse.
“Smoke.”
He leaned closer.
“What else?”
I closed my eyes.
“Mom screaming.”
His grip tightened.
“Anything about me?”
I let tears slide down my face.
“You tried to save her.”
For one second, his whole body relaxed.
There it was.
The reward.
He kissed my knuckles.
“I did everything I could.”
I looked at his cuff.
Still spotless.
“I know,” I whispered.
After he left, Ortiz came in with a recording device.
“He asked leading questions,” she said.
“He wanted to know whether I remembered him absent.”
“He also touched your hand near an injury.”
“I noticed.”
“We can restrict access.”
“Not yet.”
Ortiz studied me.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“He thinks I’m helpless.”
“He may still think helpless people are worth managing.”
“Then let him manage.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“What do you want from him?”
“The money trail.”
“We already have arson indicators.”
“Arson proves the fire. Money proves motive. Motive gets you past the grieving husband performance.”
Ortiz leaned back.
“What money?”
I told her about Northline Risk Solutions.
The policies.
The fake vendor.
The separation.
The documents my mother gave me.
Ortiz listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked, “Where is the flash drive?”
“My office safe.”
“Combination?”
I gave it to her.
“Who else knows?”
“No one.”
“Your father?”
“He knows I have an office safe. He doesn’t know what’s in it.”
She stood.
“I’ll get a warrant for the office access and document everything cleanly.”
“Detective.”
She paused.
“My mother’s name was Evelyn. Don’t let him make her a line item.”
May you like
Ortiz’s face softened for the first time.
“I won’t.”
